Autumn in Chicago
by Cat's Eye through a Mousehole
Summary: Harry and Marcone discuss threats, monsters, Latin, and bacon. Harry/Marcone, because there needs to be so much more of that in this world! Slash, natch, of the fluffy-ish sort.


"Mr. Dresden. You owe me a new building."

"This one deserved it. Really."

"And why would that be?"

"It said something nasty about my mother."

A sigh. "Do I need to hurt somebody, Mr. Dresden?"

"No. I took care of it."

"I trust I won't see it again, then."

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Define 'it'," I said.

"Whatever creature you so obviously felt the urge to detonate in my restaurant." The emphasis on _my_ was so slight I could barely hear it.

"Ah. In that case, yes, it's gone. In smaller pieces than it used to be. Oh, and now it smells sort of like bacon."

"Bacon."

"_Crunchy_ bacon."

Another sigh. "You still owe me, Mr. Dresden."

Approximately an hour later, we were sitting in a different restaurant of Marcone's, eating our food and suffering from that peculiar affliction that occasionally hits people in restaurants: namely, wishing we'd gotten what the other guy ordered. I, as restitution for the restaurant, was paying. I still smelled bacon from my encounter with the monster earlier—it seemed to have been branded into my nostrils. The meal wasn't cheap, but a niggling suspicion in the back of my mind told me that Marcone was _still _being generous about this.

"What _was_ this… bacon thing?" Marcone asked.

"I don't know," I said, shrugging. "I didn't bother to get its number. I hope it doesn't think this was some kind of one-night stand, huh?"

"_Harry_."

"Don't call me that. Look, I don't know what it was. I was too busy… taking cover."

Marcone raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"I found a strategic place to charge it," I said defensively, "and attacked it. And now it's dead. It wasn't easy, okay?" If you defined "strategic place to charge" as "hiding spot." And "attacked it" as "with no other options left, threw fire at it randomly."

Marcone smirked. I could see the translation into coward-speak going on behind his eyes. "And why did it come after you?" he said finally. "I'm sure it can't be your dashing good looks…"

"Bite me."

"…or your charming personality," he finished smoothly. "Or perhaps it _was_ your charming personality, Mr. Dresden. Who have you annoyed recently?" He waved off my reply. "Never mind, I saw that restaurant. What was left of it, anyway. Whose dearly beloved dead grandmother have you called a hag lately?"

"In my defense," I pointed out, "the wanton destruction was all me." Marcone's grey-green stare made me squirm. "Most of it, anyway. Fifty percent, plus."

Marcone sighed. "You _need_ a decent backer."

"Don't."

"Who sent it after you, at least?"

"What, are you going to make the big, bad Harry-hater go away? That's so sweet."

"Any person in my city," Marcone said, his voice low and dangerous, "who poses a threat to me and mine _will_ be eliminated. I guarantee that." It took half a moment for me to realize that the danger in Marcone's voice, potent as it was, wasn't directed towards me. It took another moment for me to dissect Marcone's choice of words.

"Hey, I'm not one of yours."

"Nevertheless," said Marcone, which could mean really anything, once you think about it. I would have pursued the topic, but my face was all warm for some reason. Maybe the power of his threat. Or guarantee. Or promise.

"Well, I don't know who it was," I said finally, shoveling some _pâtes au fromage_ into my mouth. It was delicious, sure, but I was becoming uncomfortably certain that the French meant "macaroni and cheese," and the pointy thing over the A wasn't being nearly as comfortingly fancy as it should have been. "Like I said, it's not like I had time to ask it anything. It just chased me around for a while until I… took cover in your restaurant. And then I blew it up."

"Which is when it started smelling like bacon."

"_Crunchy_ bacon."

Marcone sighed and rubbed his temples. "Who _have_ you angered lately, Harry? Any of your faerie friends? Vampires? Werewolves? Necromancers? You haven't happened to have annoyed Albus Dumbledore yet, have you?"

"I can't have annoyed Dumbledore," I pointed out cheerfully. "Dumbledore is—"

"No spoilers," said Marcone reproachfully. "Mister Hendricks hasn't read the sixth book yet."

I shot a glance at the ever-present bodyguard, who was looming one table over, ears practically pricked to pick up every word of our no doubt thrilling conversation. I'd received the general impression that the reason Hendricks hadn't been seated at our table was so we wouldn't attract attention, and I'd mused at the time that the only place Hendricks wouldn't attract attention would be in the California redwoods.

"Sorry," I said. "Look, there is an incredible amount of people in this city who want to kill me. In this country, even. Hell, probably in the world. I have a knack for making people mad. If you wanted to kill them all, it'd probably take you a while. If you _could _kill them all." I added, after too long a pause, "If I'd let you kill them all. No killing people for me, please. Bad John. No cookie for you."

"Have you finished?" Marcone inquired politely. I was confused until he saw the pointed glance at my mac-and-cheese, which I'd only really been picking at for the last few minutes. Marcone's plate had been clean for a while now.

"Oh. Right. Yeah. What now?"

"Well, now, Mr. Dresden," said Marcone, smirking, "is the part where you treat me to a movie."

"_Me morsus._" I said it lazily in my faux Latin, not bothering to put any power into the words. Marcone smiled. Somehow it made sense that he knew enough Latin to get it.

"Well, I did give you a ride here," he pointed out. "Were you planning to fly back?"

"Okay, nix on the sarcastic humor," I said sharply. "That's _my_ thing."

"Apologies," Marcone said, a smile twisting his lips. We stood and pushed in our chairs—I'd paid at the beginning of the meal, in the event of monster-related complications—and headed out of the restaurant, Hendricks following behind in a way that would probably be subtle for anyone who wasn't, well, Hendricks.

The ride home was peppered with short bursts of small talk and long silences, but nevertheless it didn't really seem long at all before the sedan was pulling up by my building and slowing to a stop. I was sliding along the seat and towards the door when there was a little shock on my arm where Marcone had touched it. I stopped and turned to the mobster. "What?"

"I realize I've already said this," said Marcone, his voice quiet, "but any threat to my city _will_ be removed."

"I think I got the message," I said. "I'm just a guy, Marcone. Not a city."

Marcone shook his head. "You are this city, Harry. As much as I am, if not more."

"So what, I belong to you now?"

Marcone smirked. "Unequivocally."

I leaned back and sighed melodramatically, scooting over to Marcone's side of the car. Our legs were pressed together now, and the heat was nice on this crisp early autumn night, and sent tingles up and down my side. "Oh, darling, look at the moon. Isn't it lovely?"

"Not as lovely as your smile," Marcone whispered in my ear. Tingles weren't exactly stopping at this point.

I did the yawn-and-stretch routine, intending to mock him and thereby salvage the situation, but feeling my arm come naturally around Marcone's shoulders and settle there. It was… nice, so I didn't move it, and it was nice too when Marcone leaned into my body in response. John Marcone's body was warm and pleasant against mine, and I could feel his heartbeat through his muscled back.

"Mister Hendricks?" said Marcone, his voice vibrating against my chest like a purring cat. "Take a walk for ten minutes or so."

There was a click and a rush of cold air, making me suddenly grateful for John's warmth. The door closed.

"Why did you—" And, of course, I was interrupted by John's mouth, heated and soft against mine, and reacted without thinking by kissing back.

After a few seconds I realized that I should be pulling back in shock around now and having some kind of dramatic inner angst, but John could do damn _skilled_ things with his tongue and he smelled like gunpowder and citrus and fresh laundry and I decided hey, maybe I'll save the worrying for later. Besides, the "stars and stones I'm making out with a mobster" part of my brain was currently being overruled by other parts of me, which happened not to be located in my brain at all.

John pulled back after a while, and I leaned back too, trying to catch my breath for more reasons than one. John smirked up at me. "What? No witty comment?"

"I'm sorry," I said, deadpan. "The Snark Wizard is out of order. Please insert coin."

I could feel John chuckling against my chest before I bent down to kiss him again. It was long, and warm, and slow, and I wished it would last forever.

Now, I'm no oracle. Hell, I can't even use an Ouija board. But here in the back seat of a warm sedan, with John Marcone in my arms and one of the first leaves of autumn scraping its soft way down the windshield, I thought I could see the future.

It wasn't anything special. Well, not any more special than the everyday routine of a wanted wizard with a talent for pissing off the powerful usually is. It was simply kissing, and banter, and maybe another dinner. It was monsters, and promises, and explosions, and magic in all senses of the word. It was just me, and John, and Chicago in the autumn.

And with any luck, it would never end.


End file.
